


What If?

by imaginarycircus



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Lizzie had said, "yes" when William offered her a ride to meet Dr. Gardiner in ep. 78? Teeny fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If?

What if she’d said, “Yes. I’m running late. It would be great if you could drop me off.”

The walk from the office to his car would be a blur because his every thought would be snagged on that one simple word, "Yes." He would have opened the passenger side door for her and there would have been another moment right then. With one foot planted inside the car, she'd pause and look at him as if she’d never seen him before, or maybe it was that he hadn’t seen her before. At least he had not seen her like this; not looking at him like this. As if he were someone she wanted to know, wanted to look at, even wanted to touch, but was afraid to, or maybe hadn’t quite figure out how. (Except for that tiny grab of his arm. He could still feel the phantom pressure of her fingers and was surprised that her touch hadn’t burned right through the cloth of his shirt. )

In the car he might consider taking the long way and she might not notice, but she had somewhere to be. So he'd drive the shortest route. In a silence the texture of wet concrete. There was no possible music that could make the atmosphere lighter. He'd find his tongue useless. All his syllables and phrases, all jammed up together with incoherent sounds--compacted into a solid mass against the back of his front teeth. Trapped. All words trapped. 

She wouldn’t know what to do with her hands, pale and fluttering against her knees like dazed moths, until she'd pulled them into the sleeves of her sweater, which he’d seen her do when she was nervous. It would actually be a bit warm in the car. He would not adjust the temperature. Perhaps she’d slip off her cardigan, exposing one perfect white shoulder that he would absolutely not lean over and bite (gently, gently) at the next stop light. Perhaps she’d be so flustered when they arrived that she’d look at him for one long moment, thank him with all her syllables blurred together in one incoherent rush and then dart from the car. Leaving her sweater behind for him to focus on, as if he could use it to conjure her back into place. He’d settled for a very little magic, just enough to get her to cancel her dinner and stay with him, have dinner with him. He'd settle for even less. If she could just not hate him. 

He would take the sweater home with him and hang it up so it wouldn’t get wrinkled, even though he knows chunky wool doesn’t really wrinkle, but it seems disrespectful somehow to leave her sweater in a wad. Also he can conveniently forget to bring it into the office each day. He’ll greet it every evening when he comes home because he's hung it on one of the pegs by the door and not in the closet. He’ll probably consider returning it. It would give him an excuse to see her and it’s pathetic to keep her sweater hostage, but he has this one wish, fragile as a soap bubble, and that's that the sweater will bring her to him. She’ll show up on his doorstep and he’ll welcome her inside and hopefully she’ll never leave. The sweater will live there because she does.

But he doesn't have her sweater. There is not the slightest trace of her perfume in his car. He won't find one long red auburn hair stuck to the headrest. What he does have is a pair of lunatics on his side and the slim hope that she'll at least look at him again. Look and see what's really there, what's there now that he's tried to change. It's hard for him not to skip ahead and start planning college funds for their children, but he stops. He wants more than he can have. He examines all the variables and decides to want something reasonable. If he could just show her that he's human, that he can be kind, that he can even laugh--and most of all that all her harsh words force him to take a long hard look at himself. She's changed him, or pointed the way to change and he thinks he may eventually be a better person because of her. He wants her to know that. 

Only he knows he can't keep his feelings hidden and anything he tries to express to her will probably end up sounding like an obligation or a debt. So he'll say nothing. He'll just try to show her in the quietest and most unobtrusive way ever. He is still standing in the office when GiGi comes to fetch him. 

"How much trouble are we talking? Am I grounded and no dessert or is this like Dead Man Walking?" She was grinning maniacally and he hadn't seen her that excited about something since she broke the 200 m breaststroke record.

"You're not in trouble, but we're going to dinner. And we're going to set some very firm ground rules about what you can do in future." 

She nodded, still practically hopping in place."Where are we going?" she asked as her opened her door and ushered her into the car. 

"You tell me. This dinner is on you, kid." He started the car and momentarily went back to his 'what if' because if Lizzie had gotten into his car she would have been assaulted by West Side Story at top volume. And really, that just would not have helped anything. 

"So we're not going for burgers, huh?" GiGi said. 

Darcy pulled to the parking lot entrance and waited for a designation. 

"Tablecloths?" She looked thoughtful. 

"Preferably." He nodded. 

"Better than average wine list?" She peered at him out of the corners of her eyes. 

"Definitely." 

"La Folie?" She looked expectant. 

Darcy nodded and turned the car toward Broadway. They'd eat a nice dinner. He'd order an obscenely overpriced bottle of wine and watch GiGi cringe. She had the money, but he'd never let her pay for a dinner like this. He won't tell her until she asks for the check and the waiter explains that it's already been paid. He has to get a little of his own back. Fitz was up next.


End file.
